


put it all aside and hold me tight

by janeives



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Banter, Frottage, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, i use the word fuck so much in richie's internal monologue but it's fine, it's about the YEARNING!, it's just me projecting, two forty year old repressed gay men try to talk thru their feelings. that's the fic.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-14
Updated: 2019-09-14
Packaged: 2020-10-18 05:57:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20634224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/janeives/pseuds/janeives
Summary: "I'm not sad," he lies. He thinks of how his hands had trembled after he'd gotten the phone call from Mike, the foul taste of bourbon and breath mints and his own bile in his throat. Every morning he's alone, even when he isn't. He isn't afraid, except for when he is. And he isn't sad, not really, but he is.Not that it's any of Eddie's business.Eddie's gaze feels like it goes right through him. There's little Richie hates more than being read, especially when it's by Eddie — there's always a split second of bone-deep terror that whispershe knows. It's familiar, something that goes way back to childhood. Still just as shit-your-pants terrifying.Or: After the reunion dinner from hell, Richie and Eddie have a long overdue conversation about, like, feelings and shit.





	put it all aside and hold me tight

**Author's Note:**

> the word fuck is used 68 times

_It's your one that got away,_  
_In the shadows of devotion_  
_You can feel it in your bones at night_  
_And it's only just begun_

— LP, One Night In The Sun

Another stone sinks.

"Jesus Christ, Eds, you _suck!_ I knew you were an amateur at hocking loogies, but I don't remember you being _this_ bad at skipping rocks. Risk paralysis must be soul-sucking work."

Eddie groans. "Risk _analysis_, douchebag. You sure you graduated? I'm having trouble remembering," he counters.

"I'm a comedian," Richie says. "I'm not a complete idiot. Give me some credit."

"You don't even write your own shit!"

"And you can't even skip rocks, but here we are," Richie sneers.

"You try skipping through puddles, jackass." Eddie rolls his eyes good-naturedly and it makes everything in Richie feel ancient and brand new at the same time. "And your memory must really be failing you in your old age, because my loogies beat yours every fuckin' time."

"Sure they did, Eds."

"Are you ever going to stop calling me that?" Another half-formed memory skitters in like a spider: Eddie, thirteen years-old with his arms crossed over his chest. Pouting. His own laughter in his head. The two of them, always arguing, always laughing.

"Never," Richie promises gleefully. He takes another swig of his lidless Big Gulp — Crush with a healthy serving of Orloff from the bar downstairs.

They're sitting on the curb outside of the Townhouse, a decent amount of distance between them that's still enough to make Richie's head spin, just a little, and maybe it's the vodka but he isn't so sure. He's got his legs splayed out in front of him, heels touching the edge of an empty parking space, while Eddie's got his knees tucked up against his chest like a kid. If Richie tries really hard he can almost pretend they're eighteen, fifteen, thirteen again, and he felt back then the same way he feels right now, starry-eyed and hopeless.

And if someone were to tell him when he was eighteen and muttering half-formed, teary goodbyes into Eddie Kaspbrak's hair that in a little over twenty years he'd be back in Derry with Eddie at his side, skipping rocks through puddles in a mostly vacant motel parking lot while they pondered the uncertainty of the next couple of days, he'd have laughed in their face. Or maybe he'd have cried, depending on the day and how loud the fear rattling around in his chest was.

Richie grabs another flat stone from the pile they spent almost fifteen minutes collecting in silence — which, in hindsight, probably looked pretty strange to anyone passing by — and hurls it towards the puddle near the parking lot entrance. It doesn't skip, only sinks with a heavy _thunk._ Eddie snorts. Richie nudges him with his elbow.

It's a good game, a lazy game. Richie's no good at it, at least no better than Eddie (who is very, very bad), but he likes it all the same. He likes that it lets him feel like another version of himself, a version who was just as afraid as he is now, but with higher prospects. That was always the hope, wasn't it? Get the fuck out of Derry, get rich, find happiness, maybe. Finally outrun the demons that have been nipping at his heels for as long as he can remember.

Back in Derry, though, Richie realizes not much has changed at all. About any of them.

Especially Eddie.

Eddie, who has lines forming at the corners of his tired eyes and a dull gold band on his ring finger, but is still as sharp-tongued as the last time Richie saw him. Eddie, who still, for some inexplicable and embarrassing reason, is making Richie's palms sweat just by existing in the space next to him.

He's so lost in that thought that he doesn't realize he's been staring, and that Eddie's been staring back, his expression a mix of amused and concerned.

"You good, Rich?" he asks.

Richie's head is swimming. Maybe it's the nickname, or the look in his eyes, or maybe it _is_ the vodka finally kicking in. How the fuck is he supposed to answer that, anyway?

"I don't know," he blurts, and it's one of the first times tonight he hasn't lied to someone's face. As a kid, lying to Eddie fucking _hurt_, even though it always felt like a necessary evil anytime he did. It hurts twice as bad twenty-some years later.

Eddie's smile drops. "How do you mean?"

Richie wipes the back of his hand across his mouth, which suddenly feels oppressively dry. "I don't know," he repeats, then laughs. "It's just...you know, weird, I guess. Being back here."

"I think it's weird for all of us," Eddie contends, eyeing Richie carefully. "What else?"

Richie sighs, feels himself go almost boneless. He wants to melt into the concrete, he wants to get in his car and speed away, he wants to _run_. His mind supplies: _coward_, but since when is that anything fucking new?

Eddie was always the brave one. Richie's more sure of that than anything else.

"You know that feeling, when you finally fucking got out of this shithole, that relief?" Richie asks. "Like...the fucking elation, the resolve. I was so _fucking_ sure I'd never, ever come back here." And it's true — he'd fled like a bat out of hell the second he got the chance, so sure that nothing anywhere could be as bad as everything Derry had done to him. The Losers were the only good things, and they'd already started scattering themselves across the country, tiny pinpricks of light in an almost-empty night sky. "I never thought I'd see you again," he adds softly. "So yeah, it's weird, man."

"You sound disappointed." Eddie's on the defense, suddenly, ready to wall himself up, coiled like a spring.

And for the first time all night, Richie really doesn't want to fight with him.

"Fuck no. It isn't that," he clarifies. Then he laughs, because how could it be, ever? Eddie doesn't even fucking _know_. More memories come scurrying back. Richie imagines they're like mice, this time, little fucking rodents gnawing away at the thin layer of resolve he's been hiding behind since the last time they saw each other. "Fuck, Eds, I — I'm not disappointed. It's, like...it's nice. It's so _good_ to see you, it's-"

He cut himself short when Eddie laughs once, short and humorless like a punch to the throat. "You don't mean that," Eddie says, and before Richie can come back with, _Yes, I fucking do, dipshit,_ he adds, "It's _sad_."

Richie tenses up, feels his eyes narrow. "Elaborate."

Leaning forward to rest his chin on his fists (and there's something about it that aches so familiarly in Richie's chest that he almost can't look), Eddie says, "You. Me. All of us. Everyone's so fucking...sad. And we're all too chickenshit to tell each other the truth because we're as good as strangers now." He sounds defeated, resigned to it, like maybe he's always known he was going to end up this way.

Richie thinks it's the most _Eddie _thing he's ever heard. He feels sick.

"I'm not sad," he lies. He thinks of how his hands had trembled after he'd gotten the phone call from Mike, the foul taste of bourbon and breath mints and his own bile in his throat. Every morning he's alone, even when he isn't. He isn't afraid, except for when he is. And he isn't sad, not really, but he _is_.

Not that it's any of Eddie's business.

Eddie's gaze feels like it goes right through him. There's little Richie hates more than being read, especially when it's by Eddie — there's always a split second of bone-deep terror that whispers _he knows_. It's familiar, something that goes way back to childhood. Still just as shit-your-pants terrifying.

"You sure about that?"

"I mean." Richie clears his throat. "I'm okay." He doesn't know if he's imagining it or if the space between them has actually gotten smaller. "Are you?"

"No. But I think you already knew that," Eddie laughs, then nods towards the cup in Richie's hand. "I know I was always a lightweight, but it would've been nice to offer me a drink, buddy."

Richie's so fucking glad that the lights dotting the Townhouse's exterior are dull and in desperate need of replacement, because he feels himself flush all the way down to his neck. "You don't even like Crush," he counters weakly. That's right. He remembers now. Eddie always liked cream soda and Richie always liked orange, and they both agreed grape was the worst, even though Ben and Mike always begged to differ.

"And you never really liked alcohol even though you always tried to pretend it didn't taste like absolute shit," Eddie says. "And now you don't even wince. Twenty-seven years is a long time." He holds out his hand, and Richie is so stunned that he passes him the drink.

Eddie dabs at the rim of the cup with the soft fleece on the inside of his jacket. "Had the cold or flu recently? Anything else I should know about?"

"Healthy as a horse," Richie promises, because he wouldn't lie to Eddie, not about that. "Relatively speaking."

Eddie smiles sadly, then takes a long pull, grimacing as dramatically as he did when they were sixteen and Richie was sneaking bottles of beer up to his room during sleepovers just for shits. "God," he gags. "That's fucking repulsive."

"Just like your m-"

"Shut up, Richie," Eddie says. When they both laugh, it feels like being knocked back twenty-seven years. Richie's still himself, crass and too loud, head over heels, and Eddie is still everything he fell in love with, in the best and worst ways possible.

Because Eddie never got out. Not really. He's still terrified. And Richie is too, but he accepted that a long time ago — he'd always hoped that for Eddie it'd be different, and suddenly he's thrown back into all the nights as a teenager he'd lie awake imagining a world where Eddie could be exactly who he wanted to be, with or without Richie. Eddie's moments of freedom were always fleeting and far between, and Richie used up a lot of mental real estate designing a reality where Eddie could be that happy all the time.

And he isn't. Neither of them are. They're forty and back in this shithole of a town, and every second they're here it gets a little harder to breathe.

Richie takes the cup from Eddie's hand. He ignores the pitiful, envious jolt of his heart when his fingers brush Eddie's wedding ring and knocks the rest of the drink back.

"I don't know if this even makes any fuckin' sense, but hear me out. You ever miss someone without realizing you missed them?" he asks, and he can't look Eddie in the eye right now but he feels the way Eddie's gaze latches onto his face. "Like, you go through your entire adult life with this feeling that someone... or _something's _missing, but you can never really put your finger on it, and then suddenl-"

"You see them again, and you remember everything you can't believe you forgot?" Eddie finishes for him. "I get it."

Richie's heart is in his throat. "Fuckin' sucks, right?"

"Oh, yeah," Eddie laughs. "Yeah, it fucking does."

"I thought I'd be over this shit by now," Richie blurts. He doesn't mean to. It's like — he opens his mouth and the words slip right off his tongue into a heap on the ground, and all Richie can do is stare, wide-eyed, at his shoes. His breath is caught in his throat. He wishes he could take it back, but there's no punchline coming to mind that can get him out of this one.

Eddie looks stricken. With disgust, with grief, with disbelief, or maybe fear — Richie can't tell.

"I really, really fucking thought I...that I'd come back here and I could be different and it would be fine, you know? Like, I puked up all my nerves and that was it, that'd be the worst of it," he continues, chuckling a little hysterically. The vodka haze is finally washing over him now, all at once, and Richie feels almost liberated by it. "That I'd see you and not...not-"

"Richie," Eddie interrupts quietly. His eyes are screwed shut, like it hurts too much to look. "Not what, Rich?"

"Love you."

Richie's pulse is pounding in his ears. It's the first time he's ever said the words out loud, and they don't come out like they're supposed to. Things were supposed to be different. This was supposed to be better. No, fuck that — this wasn't supposed to happen at all. He shouldn't be here, and neither should Eddie, because they got out once but now they're back again and Richie isn't sure this town is going to let them get out alive this time.

"I was hoping I'd stopped loving you, and that it'd hurt less." He laughs again, high-pitched and broken, a sound that's cracked right down the middle, and scrubs a hand over his face. "Yeah fuckin' right."

"You don't even know what you're saying."

"You really don't fucking get it, do you?" Richie is on his feet now, unsteady; the world is blurry around the edges. The empty cup tips over at his feet and clatters over the edge of the curb. "I mean, it's not like it even fucking matters anymore, right? Forget I said anything, I'll just go fuck myself." He wipes at the back of his jeans because it feels like the right thing to do as he flees the scene, making a beeline for the door even when he hears Eddie yelling after him about littering, as if the planet isn’t dying already, as if they aren’t going to probably die in the next few days anyway.

His face is burning and his eyes are stinging and he was a fucking idiot to ever think he'd be able to do this, any of it. He should have never come here.

Eddie catches up to him at the bell desk, because Richie isn't drunk, not really, he's just having trouble remembering what room number he's in. And he needs a fucking key.

"You're in six," Eddie tells him calmly, catching Richie's hand where it's been hammering away at the call bell for twenty straight seconds.

"Don't fucking touch me," Richie says — another memory leaping out to take a bite of his heart, but he can't say it as angrily as Eddie used to. He just sounds...sad, and scared. Really, really scared. "Please," Richie practically begs, jerking his hand away. "Don't."

"You just told me you loved me and now you won't even let me touch you?" Eddie says. He manages to look both amused and wounded at the same time, and Richie wants to kiss him, or maybe kill him. "Fine," he concedes, holding up his hands. "Fine, I won't. But you can't just drop that on someone and run away."

They both fall into silence as another memory seems to strike them both at the same time. It's hazy, but there, like something just beyond a sheet of warped glass. A front porch, Richie's face in Eddie's hair, bruising grips and Sonia Kaspbrak shouting from somewhere on high. The words _I love you, so mu_—

"You meant it, then," Eddie says, half-question and half-statement, and just like that he's Eddie Kaspbrak in all of his brave childhood glory, jaw set, fear in his eyes.

"I mean it, Eds," Richie insists. And he does — god, he means it more than he knows how to explain. It still feels like something he shouldn't be saying aloud — DON'T TOUCH THE OTHER BOYS, RICHIE — but Richie guesses he doesn't really have anything left to lose. He's going to die anyway, and they're practically right back where they started. What's the worst that could happen? He already lost Eddie once. "I loved you so much I thought it'd kill me. That doesn't just...go away."

And he isn't lying. Loving Eddie, _missing _Eddie, has become like breathing over the years — Richie may have forgotten he was doing it, but that doesn't mean he ever stopped.

"Even if it's different now. Even if _I'm_ different." If Eddie is seconds away from a panic attack like Richie expected him to be, he's doing an excellent job of not showing it.

Richie cracks a smile. "You're not all that different now, Eds. Still short. Still look like you wanna punch me in the face most of the time." He inhales shakily. He wants to press his face into Eddie's shoulder. He wants to run upstairs, grab his duffel bag from where it's lying, unopened, at the foot of the bed, and get the fuck out of this town as fast as he can. He has shows in Denver in three days, and Matt's still negotiating to get him that Netflix limited series but he's pretty sure it's gonna happen, and Richie's standing in the lobby of a townhouse in the place he grew up with a boy he used to know like the back of his hand, and nothing's right. Then again, nothing's ever been right.

Eddie looks at him, and it's like all the air has been sucked out of the room when he says, "I loved you so much I _wished _it would kill me." Richie follows his gaze to his hands, the way he's twisting his wedding band around his finger. "You must have known that, right?"

If they were fighters circling the ring, Richie would be down for the count right about now. There's no coming back from this.

"Fuck," he laughs, stops, then laughs again. "Fuck you, you fucking..._fuck_." There are tears stinging his eyes when he buries his face in his hands because it's everything he ever wanted to hear twenty years too late.

Eddie _loved_ him, too. _Eddie_ loved him, too. Eddie fucking loved _him_, too.

It sounds like a joke. It has to be a joke. Richie almost wishes it were. And yeah, sure, if Ben were here he'd say some shit like_ it's never too late_, but Richie's on the other side of the country and Eddie's got someone waiting for him back home and they're just too old.

It's too fucking late.

Richie runs his fingers through his hair. His eyes are burning. "_Shit._"

"Yeah," Eddie agrees solemnly, but then he's laughing, too, the full-body kind of laughter that Richie constantly tried to coax out of him as a kid just because it was nice to see him let go for two fucking seconds. It's euphoric.

"We could've been so different." Richie's still smiling, but he doesn't really feel like laughing anymore. "What a fucking mess," he says, leaning back against the counter.

"The fucking worst," Eddie agrees, leaning next to him, so close their sleeves brush. He's still shaking with the aftershock of laughter, but his eyes are so _sad_. When they were younger they'd always go to each other like this, teary-eyed and pathetic in the ungodly hours of the morning when their monsters at home became impossible to bear. They'd hold each other in the glow of streetlights through the window, and Richie would think about kissing Eddie all night long. _Let's just run away,_ he always imagined whispering to Eddie in the dark. _Fuck this town. Let's get out. Just me and you._

There's still time. Not a lot. But there's still tonight. A white hot lick of desire strikes the base of Richie's spine.

"It's getting late. We could, uh —" he says, because he wants to be brave, just this once. He clears his throat. "You could come up to my room."

Eddie purses his lips. He doesn't look startled, just nervous, like he was expecting the night to take this turn all along. Or maybe they were both just hoping for it. Either way, Richie's into it.

"I have a wife." Eddie's clearly trying to remind himself rather than Richie, but it doesn't keep the ache away, doesn't keep annoyance from flaring up in him.

"You have a wife," Richie echoes. "And you're _super _into her, right?"

Eddie looks stricken, but he doesn't deny it. "You know this won't end well, Rich," he murmurs. It's a warning shot. It's a _last chance, no take-backs, no turnaround beyond this point_ warning shot right at Richie's heart.

Well, fuck it.

"It didn't start well either," Richie counters, playful, raising an eyebrow. Eddie's face is so close to his own.

Eddie gives him a _look_, one that he's thrown Richie's way so many times in his life Richie doesn't know how the fuck he ever managed to forget. A look that's equal parts annoyed and tender, maybe more tender than he'd realized when they were younger. Maybe he's just getting overly sentimental about the whole thing. But Eddie said still it, said _I loved you so much I wished it'd kill me._ Richie licks his lips, waits. He isn't patient, but for Eddie he'd like to try impossible things.

"You're fucking insufferable, you know that?" Eddie says finally, and then he's dragging Richie towards the stairs.

And the thing is, Richie likes to laugh. When shit's funny and when it really, really isn't. When it's real, and raw, the kind of laughter that feels like it's going to shake his ribs loose. When it's fake, and he has to drag the sound of out his lungs while everyone in the room pretends not to notice. When it's soft, or loud, or muffled. It doesn't matter. Laughter's a safe door to hide behind, and Richie knows the shape of every lock by heart.

He likes to laugh, likes to pretend, and now is as good a time as any because his heart is going a million miles a minute but his voice is as serious as it's ever been when he stops at the base of the stairs, presses his lips to Eddie's hair and murmurs, "Yeah. But that's why you loved me, right?"

"Love you," Eddie corrects, just as gentle. When Richie looks down at him, his eyes are unafraid. "Get the key."

It takes Richie's brain a good five seconds to stop short-circuiting and process the demand. "Huh?"

Eddie laughs. It's such a soft, nice sound. Richie doesn't know how he didn't shrivel up and die without hearing it for so long.

"Your room key, dummy," he prompts. His tone is understanding, like he's trying to say,_ I get it, me too_, but there's an undercurrent of urgency that makes Richie's chest tighten. He smiles when Richie finally digs the key out of his back pocket.

In spite of his alcohol-muddied vision and the disorienting pound of his heartbeat in his ears, Richie has never made it up a flight of stairs so fast.

He doesn't realize his hands are shaking until he almost can't open the fucking door to his room, and when he slams it shut behind them it's far too loud, too rough. The ugly painting of the forest above the bed rattles, Richie almost trips over his bag, and they both laugh, scared stupid and nervous like middle schoolers sneaking off to make out under the bleachers.

Richie's face is in Eddie's hands now, pulling him close. Eddie is smiling, and his eyes are burning with love, in the purest sense of the word, love and _want_, and god, if this was all Richie could get from him tonight or ever he thinks maybe it would be enough. It's more than he ever expected.

"Don't get shy on me now, Eds," Richie whispers — stupidly, as if he isn't the one still having an internal crisis at the idea that Eddie could ever have loved him back.

He chuckles nervously, and Eddie grips the back of his neck, and then they're kissing.

Everything about it is brand new. It's uncharted territory, as if they've both just been dropped into the deep end with no shore in sight and the only thing they have to cling onto is each other. There's nothing to compare this to, aside from the hazy red-faced daydreams he'd had about kissing Eddie when they were younger, the ones he swore to himself to never act on in a million years. It took him over twenty years to break the promise to himself. Richie thinks that's pretty good, but fuck, if Eddie's into it, it's a promise worth breaking, because Eddie's worth _everything_.

For the millionth time tonight, he cannot fucking believe he ever managed to forget.

Richie has never had a kiss worthy of fireworks and instrumentals, and he realizes now he probably never will. He missed the boat on that. But if he spends one more second dwelling on missed chances, he's going to drive himself fucking insane. Besides, maybe there are no fireworks but this feels — good, and _right_, Eddie warm and solid and real as ever up against him, the hard lines of his body through his clothes, mouth warm and liquor-slick.

It feels like coming home, and for the first time, _home_ doesn't seem like such a terrifying, unfamiliar place.

Eddie pulls away first, sucking in a low, shuddering breath. His fingers are loose around the back of Richie's neck, keeping him close, keeping their foreheads together.

"That was good," Richie breathes. He already wants to kiss him again. "You been practicing on your pillow?"

Eddie snickers. "Shut up."

"Make me," Richie challenges, because he remembers that too, that Eddie loves a good dare and he'll rarely ever say no. Mostly he just wants to be kissed again, now and forever, by Eddie. He wants to pour this feeling into the emptiness of the last twenty years of both of their lives. He's been so lonely for so long, but it isn't until now that Richie feels the _depth_ of the gaping maw in his chest, the one that's already starting to sew itself shut from the feeling of Eddie's hands and eyes and mouth on him.

What he doesn't expect is for Eddie to drag him over to the bed, crawl over him and straddle his hips like a high schooler, hands planted on the mattress on either side of Richie's face, and kiss him again. It's all teeth and tongue, hot and hungry and better than anything Richie's ever had. He bucks up into Eddie's spread thighs involuntarily, and it's stupid and embarrassing and then they're laughing again, all of Eddie's weight falling on top of him, his head in the crook of Richie's shoulder. Another memory still — Eddie crawling into a hammock with him despite his weak protests, tangling their legs together, leaning over him obnoxiously to peek at the comic book in his hands.

"You're a fucking wet dream," Richie says.

Eddie snorts. He's blushing when he leans in to kiss Richie again, gentle. "I don't think I ever considered that I could be anyone's wet dream."

That kind of pisses Richie off, because it's actually super unfair that Eddie spent his entire adolescence walking around in the shortest shorts of anyone in their class, completely oblivious to the torture he was putting through Richie every single day of his fucking life.

"You were mine," Richie murmurs, rolling them over carefully so he can stare down at Eddie, who looks as embarrassed as if Richie's walked in on him naked. "You were _fucking_ mine, Eds, Jesus. I think I thought about it more than I talked about boning your mom."

Eddie throws his arms over his face, elbow hitting Richie's nose and knocking his glasses askew. He doesn't apologize. "Oh my god, I really do not want to hear about my mom right now. And call me Eds one more time and I'll leave you here with blue balls, asshole."

"You sure about that?" Richie fixes his glasses and ghosts his mouth over the line of Eddie's jaw. "I think you wanna hear all about all the nights I spent thinking about touching you."

"Oh, fuck you. That's not fair." Eddie lets out a groan, sounding equal parts turned on and annoyed, but there's an inescapable look of defeat in his eyes. One that says, _You win, I'm yours. Always yours._

"How so, sugar?" Richie presses. He doesn't know where the name comes from, only that it makes Eddie's grip on him that much tighter, makes his breath catch against Richie's mouth, so he thinks he'll keep it.

"God, you really don't ever shut up," Eddie snarls, and then he's taking out Richie's arms so he can wrangle him onto his back again in what might be the most aggressively hot power move Richie's ever seen. Okay, so Eddie likes to be on top. Noted. Richie can vibe with that. Actually, he can vibe with pretty much whatever Eddie wants to do, as long as it isn't too, too weird. It's just — it's Eddie. It's _fucking _Eddie.

Richie can't stop smiling. His face hurts from it.

They kiss for a long time, maybe longer than is necessary. Richie can't remember making out with someone for such a long time since college, and even then it was never like this. Everything's always been so impersonal. Women, usually, but men if he's drunk and brave enough. His manager, once, six or seven years ago, and who Richie is only now starting to realize looks like Eddie. Just a little bit.

It makes sense that he'd be looking for Eddie in everyone.

It's when he finally gets to mouthing desperately at Eddie's throat like he means it that Eddie starts getting extra fidgety, like he can't handle it, like it's already too much, and Richie doesn't know how the fuck they got from reuniting in a Chinese restaurant two hours ago to Eddie grinding sloppily against his thigh in bed, but life's weird sometimes and he's not going to complain.

"Rich, I fuckin' — fuck, oh my god, you're so," Eddie gasps, and it's not even that he cuts himself off. He just...stops talking, like that explains everything.

Richie gets it, though.

"Yeah, you too," Richie murmurs, drags his tongue over the curve of Eddie's throat, and it's so good, and he never thought he'd have this, not in a million years. "You're so good, Eds, just like I fucking dreamed you'd be, _god_."

Eddie's fingers tighten their grip on his jacket, and his hips stutter, mouth going slack against Richie's, and holy shit, he just _came. _And all Richie had to do was stick his tongue down his throat and call him _good_. It's kind of embarrassing. Mostly just hot.

"Jesus fucking Christ," Richie breathes. This must be death, he thinks, the sweetest embrace of it, and he welcomes the feeling with open arms when Eddie looks up at him, mortified. "Did you just — you really just..."

"Shut the fuck up," Eddie snaps, burying his red face in the fabric at Richie's hip. "Listen, I've been having sex with the same person for the past five years, okay, and it's been a long fucking five ye-"

"I don't want to hear about you fucking your wife," Richie snaps. "Especially not after I just made you cream yourself like a schoolgirl."

"Fine," Eddie says, surprisingly passive, and before Richie can open his mouth to apologize Eddie is shoving his hand down the front of Richie's pants and it's all Richie can do not to yell. Instead, he bites at the juncture of Eddie's shoulder, except Eddie's still wearing all his clothes and he ends up with a mouthful of maroon fabric to muffle the noises building in his throat.

Eddie's good with his hands, but he's also shaking and spent and hasn't ever done this with another man, so it's a little awkward and imperfect, a little uncomfortable, and the friction isn't quite enough even though Richie is arching into his touch like his life depends on it.

"Wait,” Richie says quickly, because, like, he'd sit still and let Eddie just rest his hand over his dick for the rest of time and it'd be fine, but he also really wants to get off. "Just...here."

He covers Eddie's hand with his own and gasps at the additional pressure, guiding Eddie's hand in all the right ways and it's good, so good he wants to close his eyes but he can't stop looking at Eddie's fucking face. He's looking down at their hands working over Richie like he's witnessing something holy, and just like that Richie needs to kiss him again.

"I can't believe I — _fuck_, I'm close — ever let you go," Richie says, biting the words into Eddie's mouth, the fingers of his free hand trembling against Eddie's cheek. His breath is coming thin now, and he's arching into their hands and babbling, "I'm sorry, I'm so fucking sorry, Eddie, I should've told you back then but I was so fucking scared, I _am_ so fucking scared, I'm so-"

"Richie. Rich, honey." Eddie presses down on him with the meat of his palm to shut him up, Richie's own hand having all but gone slack, and when he touches their mouths together this time it's the most gentle thing in the world, far gentler than Richie has ever been treated in his life, and it's only when Eddie whispers, "You have me now, okay? You have me. I'm right here, Rich," that he comes, all stars behind his eyes and curling toes, and he didn't realize he was crying but when he presses his face against the comforter he feels the wetness on his cheek, so he must have been at some point.

From somewhere on high, he thinks he says _I love you_.

Eddie is still stroking his cheek when he finally comes back to himself, and Richie feels himself melt all over again.

"You good?" Eddie asks.

"I swear I died for a second there," Richie jokes, then winces. "Sorry. Bad timing. It was...how do I put this? It felt like my soul momentarily left my body, and now it's back and I'm honestly just hoping I didn't make all this shit up. I'm also hoping my o-face didn't scare you off."

Eddie smiles. His eyes are fond, but there's something else, a flicker of worry, of doubt that makes Richie's stomach twist. "Richie, you know I..." His voice falters. "I -"

_I love you. I'm afraid. I missed you. I missed you so much._

"I know," Richie says, then kisses Eddie's forehead. "Me, too." It's true, on all accounts. He curls his fingers in the sweaty curls at the nape of Eddie's neck. As a child he'd used to wind those curls around his fingers while they dried off in the sun after swimming in the quarry, and it was one of the only times Eddie didn't grumble about being touched.

Richie was so in love with him back then he thought he'd burst from it, and it's that same shaking desperation he feels now. He can't remember the last time he felt this much of anything good.

And it isn't his to keep.

"Come with me," he blurts, selfish and impulsive and so, so fucking stupid.

Eddie raises his eyebrows. He props his head up on his hand, but he can't go far with Richie's arm still slung around him. "Huh?"

"If — when we get out of here," Richie says, "I want you to leave with me. We'll go put this fucking piece of shit clown in the dirt for good this time, and then I want you to come with me, okay? To California."

Eddie tenses. "Richie, I —"

Richie can't let him finish. "Or I'll come to New York, or wherever, I don't give a fuck," he says. His hand has moved back to Eddie's hair, scratching lightly at his scalp. Their faces are so close he can feel the way Eddie's breath hitches. He's never been intimate like this with anyone in his entire life. He's never felt more seen than he does with Eddie. "We can go anywhere you want. Please, just...when this is all over, let's get out of here together, yeah?"

Eddie exhales and closes his eyes, and Richie can already feel his answer vibrating in the space between them. He knows he's already lost when Eddie sits up and puts his head in his hands.

"It's not that easy. I can't just...get up and walk away from everything, Richie, I have an entire life. I have a job, I have a _wife_."

Just because Richie was expecting it doesn't mean it feels like anything less than getting punched in the face. He sits up, then stands, and he probably looks ridiculous with his shirt half-unbuttoned and a wet spot in the front of his pants, hair rumpled, but he'll get down on his knees and beg if he has to. He worried enough about looking stupid in front of Eddie when they were thirteen. He doesn't have time now.

"You have a wife, yeah. We established before you put your hand on my dick." Richie wishes his voice weren't shaking when he said it. "You love her or something? Is that it?"

Eddie's jaw is set. He's shaking, too. "You know it's not about that."

"Listen to me," Richie begs, and this time he does kneel at the foot of the bed, resting his hands on Eddie's knees. "Please, just listen."

Throat bobbing as he raises his gaze to the ceiling, Eddie says, "I'm listening."

"Can you look at me?" He's pleading now, and oh, look, one last piece of the past hitting him over the head — down on his knees in the rundown house on Neibolt, Eddie's tear-streaked face in his dirty hands. _Eddie, look at me! Look at me!_ They'd both been screaming, and so afraid. They're still afraid. It never ends.

Eddie looks at him. Richie softens, rests his chin on his hands, presses a kiss to Eddie's clothed knee.

"If it helps, I've been figuratively shitting myself since I got the call from Mike," Richie says, and he laughs when Eddie rolls his eyes. "I know this shit's scary, and I know you're scared -" He pauses to let Eddie bristle, which Eddie does, but he also doesn't deny it. "But I also know you're a hell of a lot braver than I've ever been."

He feels Eddie's legs stiffen under his touch, and he half-expects Eddie to just stand up and leave. Instead, Eddie leans down to cup his face and kisses him once more, quietly, tenderly enough that Richie's knees would be buckling if he were standing.

He can't tell if the kiss tastes like a _thank you_ or an_ I'm sorry_ or a _goodbye_. Maybe it's all three.

"I'll think about it," Eddie says, and whether or not it's the truth doesn't matter right now. "Okay, Rich? I will. It's just..."

"Scary," Richie finishes for him, and he's so relieved he thinks he might start crying again. When's the last time he cried before tonight? It feels long overdue. "I know." He runs his teeth over his lip. "Stay the night, yeah?"

Eddie smiles and pats his cheek. "I need to go shower and change and take my meds and call My-" He stops and clears his throat. "Maybe just five more minutes."

"I'll take it," Richie says, and then he's hauling himself up onto the bed and tugging Eddie back with him so they can actually lie down properly now, like, on pillows and under blankets and shit, and Eddie lets him pull the comforter over them in a way that suggests it's going to be a lot longer than five minutes. It's almost eerie, how easily they nestle into each other like this — this is good, this is familiar. This is every sleepover they ever had as kids, when Eddie would curl up against Richie's back and Richie would be up all night listening to him breathe alongside the sound of his heart pounding in his ears.

"If we get out of this shit alive," Eddie murmurs, words tickling the back of Richie's neck, "we're going to spend the rest of our lives in bed."

The lamp on the nightstand buzzes, goes dark for a moment, then burns bright orange again.

Richie closes his eyes and squeezes Eddie's hand under the covers, and he's begging whoever or whatever is out there listening to let them get through this because there's this awful, all-consuming feeling that they aren't going to get lucky again this time.

God, Richie wants more fucking time. 

"Sounds like a plan to me, Eds."

**Author's Note:**

> hey i love and missed these two so fucking bad :(
> 
> [tumblr](https://89tozier.tumblr.com)


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